The Obsessivore

Son, we are alike in many ways. Both of us get cranky when we're not fed on time. We pound the table in anticipation and make quick work of whatever's put in front of us. When we're done, we crane our necks in every direction, searching for more. Like junkies, we eye those around us suspiciously, trying to figure out who's holding out on more yummies. We are junkies of yumminess, you and I. And when we hit the bottle, things tend to get drooly and messy.

We have our differences, of course. You like bananas. Whereas I, with my giant evolved daddy brain, see that yellow mushy-stick for the cloying fruit of hell that it truly is. That's okay. You squeeze them in your fists and mash 'em around in (or sometimes just near) your mouth and flash a crazy grin of approval.

You're nine months old this week and you are a very good eater.

When Bon Appetit asked me to muse on the subject of my anxiety about raising a good eater, I said sure, because being a parent means that no anxiety will be left behind. But there's reason to believe you will not be finicky or troubled in matters of digestion. In the nature-versus-nurture sweepstakes, being the child of two eager, interested, sometimes-professional eaters, the odds of your having a healthy appetite were always in your favor. I am quite familiar with the range of your tastes: I've peeled, pureed, mashed, and steamed nearly every semisolid bite you've eaten. You took easily to broccoli, apples, peas, sweet potatoes, parsnips. Shards of baguette and tiny torn shreds of the sticky almond croissant I have with my coffee. And that piece of turbot you swiped off your mother's plate at Osteria Morini when she looked away for a moment. You like, basically, everything except avocados, but especially apples, and most of all whatever anyone else is eating in front of you.

Of course there is anxiety, always anxiety. I don't want you to develop allergies or jerky tendencies. I'd prefer it if you grew out of your desire to eat shirt buttons. What do I want for you as a little consumer of food? I want you to be an open and eager and engaged consumer but not to be consumed by the subject. To give thought to how you fuel that chunky little body of yours, but not to take it all too seriously. I want you to not be distracted down the road by any form of dining didacticism, be it militant macrobiotics or hard-core hedonism. I'd like you to know where our food comes from. That a hamburger is from a cow, and a cow isn't just a barnyard cartoon that says "moo" in the books I try to read to you (while you try to eat the book). I'd prefer it if you didn't rebel too much against your well-meaning dad and decide on a diet of only TV dinners or feedlot fast food. Or, God forbid, only bananas.

But those bananas are good for you (so I'm told), and they obviously give you pleasure. And that's what I guess I want most: that in addition to staying healthy, you find joy in preparing and sharing and eating your food. There's not much else in this world as dependable as the pleasures of eating and drinking (and drooling and grinning) and being at the table with the people we love. So, my little friend, for as long as I'm feeding you and long after, may all of your meals be (emphatically lowercase) happy meals. --Adam Sachs (a.k.a. The Obsessivore)